Family—a mess of acquaintances—whiners,
An insufferable carnival of fools.
From work, from friends, from rotten politics
The brain is endlessly assailed.
Take books—garbage and filth:
One cat scratches,
Another licks, breeds filth
And mews sensually. . .

Peter the Great, Peter the Great!
You are the guiltiest of all.
What drove you to the wild north
To commit such a sin?
Eight months of winter—instead of dates, cloudberries.
Cold, snot, rain, darkness—Your mad head pulls you from the window
To fall down upon the bridge. . .
I am indignant, indignant! My God, what’s next?!

Each day, from a spoonful of kerosene,
We drink the poison of dim trifles. . .
Under the lewdness of senseless speeches
Man grows dull as cattle. . .

There is a parliament, no? God knows,
I don’t know. The devil knows.
Here—I do know—there is sadness,
And the impotence of anger exists...
People moan, are deranged, run wild,
But don’t consider hateful days.

Where are we—dear one, dear blood?
Where are we—undying love?
Guchkovy, the Duma, slush, darkness, cloudberries. . .
My dear one! Doesn’t your mad head pull you
From the window to fall on the bridge?
Indeed, it does pull you, right?